She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting. I thought it was a mirror at the first, for it was so very like myself. Jack Kimble nodded eagerly. My name is Wild— Jonathan Wild. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. Jack's mouth was coarse and large; Darrell's small and exquisitely carved, with the short, proud upper lip, which belongs to the highest order of beauty. His hand shook so violently that he dropped the handkerchief; and he let it lie on the floor because he dared not stoop. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore.
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